


And it’s hot

by LunarlyO



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Drabble, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, this is meant to be vague and melodic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 13:00:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29472096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunarlyO/pseuds/LunarlyO
Summary: Post BOTW.A semi-explicit drabble about a trip to the Gerudo Desert and how that might make one feel overheated.
Relationships: Link & Zelda (Legend of Zelda), Link/Zelda (Legend of Zelda)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	And it’s hot

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work on AO3!
> 
> Please let me know if you like it. I enjoyed writing it.

The sun is shining directly into her irises, almost painfully bright. Hot sand slaps around her like a whip. Some of it makes its way into her mouth and eyes.

There’s desert as far as the eye can see.  
Their seals left long ago, spooked by a lizaflo Link quickly turned to more sand. 

She follows him, like always. And it’s hot. 

She’s standing in a traditional Gerudo outfit. It’s the only thing she can wear in this heat. 

It’s blue like his eyes and just as cool. 

His eyes linger on the bare skin of her midriff. She pretends not to notice.  
They shift to meet the green of her own gaze. Then on to the horizon. 

His expression shows concern, probably regarding the stupidity of them visiting this part of Hyrule in the summer, but she barely registers that, because he’s somehow more attractive right now and it’s a bit much. Oh, and it’s hot. 

He is wearing a tunic that she suspects had sleeves at one point in its life, it’s green and it’s thin and it’s been cut below the shoulder to make room for his bare arms.

There’s sweat accumulating on his left temple. Some of his golden hair got caught in the moisture and now a pretty tendril is just darker than the rest. It clings to his face in an odd way. 

He catches her staring and unconsciously licks his lips.

Why doesn’t his mouth look as dry as hers feels?  
Quite the opposite, as it would appear.

He squints at the horizon. He smirks at her. There’s particles of sand in her throat, too deep to dislodge.

She wishes her clothes weren’t so tight.

She wishes his were tighter.

  
It’s hot. 

They aren’t even halfway to the ruins that she’s been itching to inspect and document. The sun, however, has long been at its highest point. It feels so.

Her mouth tastes like the desert. She feels a sting to her palm and remembers that Link had slipped a cold vial of elixir into her hand minutes ago.   
She knows he’s going to wait for her to take it. 

The glass is really cold. She wishes she could put it down her shirt. 

She reluctantly drinks half and quickly pushes it back into his hands.

The difference between the extreme heat and the cold making it’s way down her chest is nauseating.  
  
He stares at her for a moment, observing her reaction— then he places the vial to his lips and drains it.

she watches him do it. Closely.

The movement shouldn’t be so appealing.

The heat is getting to her. 

She remembers the way a lone droplet of perspiration had made its way from behind his ear and down his neck, it had clung to his collarbone and disappeared down his shirt. She wonders where it went. Where it settled. 

She can taste it on her tongue. 

She’s hot. It’s hot. 

The sand remains _hot_ and loose when they arrive at their destination. It coats her skin like a second layer and it’s been there so long she’s not sure it will unstick. 

The sun is orange, but on its way home for the night, painting everything in warmer tones. Orange and yellow and sand and sweat.

Link is sitting against a rock by a cactus, tucked in as though expecting its shadow to provide him relief from the hot. 

He’s drinking water with his chin pointed to the sky. His throat undulates as he does it and she momentarily pauses her notation.

He’s pink all over. His eyes are blue. 

His arms are spotted brown where they meet his shoulders now. 

She reapplies pen to paper.

She’s taken the photos she needed. The notes too. 

She’s exhausted and he seems to be as well, so they stop briefly by a small set of palm trees. They provide good shade—the only shade they’ve had in hours. 

They catch their breath and Link, ever prone to improving situations with food, splits a hydromelon and hands her a slice. And, by Hylia’s grace, it’s still cool.

It’s also sticky and euphoric and refreshing.

And this is how they always taste best, she decides, when you really need them.

They’re sitting so close, sharing shade. 

They giggle at how quickly they polished off the entire melon. It was rather large and Zelda's belly feels a bit sloshy. 

They’re staring at each other as the laughter dies to desert noise—blue and green and blue and green.

His thumb is suddenly on her face, and she’s not really sure when he moved. It’s calloused and rough and _just_ to the right of her lip.

He’s staring intently at her mouth as he drags his thumb upwards in a wiping motion— oh, hydromelon juice. 

He holds her gaze as he places that thumb in his mouth, wrapping his lips around the digit. 

The melon's effects have suddenly worn off. And it’s _hot._

It’s almost unfair how flustered this makes her, but time almost slows to give her a shot. 

The tension is thick and palpable and tastes like sand and melon. 

His mouth would taste better, she knows that. 

Naturally she leans forward and presses her mouth hard to his.

His mouth is cold, but his his nose and cheeks are warm where they meet her face.   
It feels amazing. 

Her head is foggy from all of the _heat._

His hand runs up her bare spine touching just under where the fabric of her top starts.

He teases between her shoulder blades.

Fingertips dancing across her back like matchsticks.

Her hands are threaded in the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s sweaty. They’re sticking to one another and really not helping themselves stay cool.

And yeah, it’s hot, but she leans into the heat for once and _it’s nice. She’s faced heat before and won— this is no different. No different._

They can’t sit in the desert all day— they would die. 

So, they press on through the sand and the wind and all of the new tension. 

When they finally arrive to the oasis the stars are starting to shine through the indigo above them. The stars always look best in Gerudo. 

It’s beautiful really, but she barely sees it with how fast she skips to their shared tent. 

Only shared because Link refuses to sleep indoors with her, so the tent is her bed chamber and his glorified storage closet. 

He knocks to use it. 

This line of thinking frustrates her, especially given the particulars of their day, so she stops thinking about it. 

She wants a cold shower and a Noble Pursuit, but settles for just the shower. They use ice to cool the water in the bathhouse here and it’s perfect. Maybe she’d put something similar together for the house they share in Hateno. He doesn’t knock to enter there, but somehow this makes sense to him.

She goes back to the tent and Link is brushing the tangles out of his newly wet hair. He smells like voltfruit and herb soap.

He smiles and she likes it too much. 

His hair is clinging to his face oddly in places, reminding her of what it did in the sun. It makes her stomach tickle.

Her feet move without her permission over to him and by the time she presses her lips to his all hesitancy is lost to the desert. A grain among multitudes.

And then she’s being pressed into a bedroll—his mouth at the pulse point of her neck. 

She can’t think. She can’t breathe.

She doesn’t.

It’s late now and the familiar evening cold of Gerudo has settled in. The air that leaks in from the tiny holes of her tent let minuscule bursts of cold in. 

Her skin, however, is on fire.

He leaves trails of thatfire down the planes of her bare skin, all of the parts that he’s touched are coated in it, and at this point he’s touched so much. 

The small breezes through the holes no longer suffice.  
So her top comes off, and maybe the rest too.

She can’t see the stars outside right now, she’s otherwise occupied, but she’s pretty sure they are well represented in his eyes. Especially when he looks at her like that.

Maybe his clothes come off too. 

And it’s still too hot.   
It hasn’t waned. 

They’d been trudging through the desert all day and it was bright and it was exhausting and it _was hot._

It seemed that she was never _not_ hot these days.

He held her so tightly and his arms were stronger than they looked, and perhaps Hylia had intended that for battle and for power, but she was _also_ Hylia in a sense, and she felt that there was no place in the world where they would be better served than _right here and right now._

He always leveled her with cool blue gazes and refreshing smiles. He was hydromelon in the desert. 

He was best when you needed him.

They left the desert the next morning, of course. Duty calls and would continue to call. 

So seems their fate. 

But she can tell when he thinks about the desert.

She can tell because the air gets thick. 

It tinges yellow and orange and his eyes seem to narrow by their own accord. She wishes she could explain it.

Like the anticipation you feel before the icy elixir hits your gut, leaving chill in it's wake.

And they aren’t in the desert anymore, far from it, but they’re sweating. 

His lips could taste like that melon for all she knows, but she really couldn’t tell you because her brain is in the process of melting melting from the heat. 

She does see stars, so to speak. 

They’re starting to poke through the indigo now. They sit like pearls in velvet.

And when she breaks through the surface of the metaphorical water and catches her breath, she meets that blue with new found ferocity. She’s tamed that heat before.

It’s a dance she’s familiar with, and she has the oddest feeling that she’s rationalized this before, but now it’s different and it’s _right this time_. 

Yeah, it’s hot. That’s just how it is. So she leans back and she smolders.


End file.
